That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary

How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?

Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe

There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.

Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.

Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.